


The Subject, Continued

by Poose



Series: Treasury Collection [3]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Bandages, Begging, Dinner, Farmer Washington, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jesus These Tags, M/M, Mrs. Washington Ships It, Painful Sex, Sex Crying, Size Difference, Slow Build, Sustainable Agriculture, Teasing, This Serves as Your Official Warning, cash slash, house porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5809675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lamps have been lit, including one which Washington carries to his study to retrieve his books and ledgers, which provide the pretext for his nocturnal visit. They step out the front door and into the warm air. Every few seconds, glimmering pinpoints of light flash into being - <i>fireflies,</i> Washington calls them.</p><p>Their footsteps crunch on the gravel as they walk up the drive past the kitchens and towards the clerk’s quarters. To Alexander, it seems a thin pretext indeed - why would they not hole up in Washington’s study? - but the chief virtue of being the man in charge, for all intents and purposes, is that your motives are never called into question by those around you. Alexander still does it. It seems silly to stop the habit now.</p><p>~~</p><p>(There's a lot like this, but they do fuck in the end)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Subject, Continued

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts).



> This is the second part to [Waiting in Chesapeake Bay.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5747158) If you like your burn _very_ slow you might want to read that first. 
> 
> A slight warning: Obviously Hamilton and Washington are both married here, so if that's something that bothers you, please don't read any further. However, from what I can tell at least, Martha is totally cool with it.

When the wooden door swings shut behind the general Alexander exhales so hard he loses his balance. Only by placing a hand on either side of the ladder does he manage to remain upright. Not since Eliza told him that Phillip was expected has he been so simultaneously elated yet filled with dread. Tonight cannot come quickly enough. He wants and is wanted in return, and surely that should be enough?

With a clearer head at last, Alexander opens the shutters to gaze at the main house some hundred feet distant. The bell chimes again. Now that Washington has drawn attention to his perpetual tardiness, he must be prompt. A quarter of an hour remains in which to make himself presentable. The general has given him a hard time of it. Sweat has broken out and dried on his brow countless times. Underneath his clothes his skin is tacky to the touch. Even without a mirror, he knows his hair must be askew. A quick wash from the pitcher, a spritz of lemon water, a comb through his hair is all he can spare for his toilet. Decent, at least, in appearances. However the signs are all there for anyone with the cipher to read. His body bears the stamp of Washington’s pressed against his own. Need is written across his face, plain as day.

A few dozen strides takes him the short path between the clerk’s building and the main house. With his long legs, he thinks, the general would have arrived more quickly. A girl greets him at the threshold, opening the door in anticipation of his knock.“Mrs. Washington is expecting you, Sir,” she says with a pleasant curtsey. Does etiquette demand he reciprocate? There should be a manual for such things.

The whole scene feels quite refined - very _Southern_. At home in New York, he himself answers the door. Or at least when he hears the rap of the knocker over the clang of his own thoughts. Can it be helped, how he becomes engrossed to the point of forgetting? It has served him well enough until now. Yes, it will carry him.  

They pass through a grand wooden entryway to a small blue sitting room. Mrs. Washington nods to the girl as he is announced and entrusted to her care. She has changed into a gown of embossed peach silk that sets off the lively brown of her eyes. They repeat the ritual of the lawn: she greets him, he kisses her hand, and on this occasion he is not dragged away on a godforsaken nature expedition. It is altogether more pleasant.

Alexander surmises that Mrs. Washington agrees with him, given her tone. “Mr. Hamilton. It is a pleasure to have you stop with us. I trust that my husband has taken advantage of this fine weather--” she must speak in jest, the mercury has practically _boiled over_ in the heat, “--in order to show you all four corners of our estate.”

Alexander dodges the question as nicely as one can. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. I am very pleased to see His Excellency so involved in the stewardship of Mount Vernon. It is an enterprise to which his temperament seems well suited.”

Her laugh, when it comes, stands in girlish contrast to the way her face creases when she does. Mrs. Washington left youth behind two decades ago, but Alexander thinks her beautiful. He knows her already. From her letters, of course, but more than that. The familiarity is a comfort rather than an insult. At once he is struck by a desire - practically unheard of for him - to endear himself to her, rather than to impress with his intelligence.

“That,” she answers, merriment dancing in her eyes, “seems a very prudent way of putting it. Shall I show you the main floor while we wait, or would you prefer to rest and have a glass of wine? You must be exhausted from your travels, as well as your more recent...excursions.”

That is one way of putting it. God, he wants to touch his mouth, as if by doing so he could awaken the imprint of Washington’s kisses. To be back in that small room with the sun long set and Washington delivering promise after promise to Alexander’s backside.

“The house.” He clears his throat, “by all means, lead the way.”

“We must retrace our steps, then, and will start in the entryway.” She folds her needlework into a carpet bag and gives him her arm.

Alexander listens as they walk from parlor to bedchamber, each room more exquisite than the last. The colours are rich and the furnishings extraordinary. He compliments her to that end, but she demurs. “Mr. Washington has very precise tastes,” says his hostess, as she opens yet another grand door. “Now this room you will already have heard a great deal about, from even before the time of its construction.”

When the door swings inward it takes his breath away. Alexander had not prepared for the possibility that Washington’s home would leaves him as bereft of speech as his kisses. The green-papered room spans the whole length of the house. Its ceilings vault away as high as the roof. A Palladian window catches the dying rays of the sun. Already his mind is calculating the cost of every pane -- astronomical, it must have been, especially during wartime. Portraits of Washington - astride a horse, in repose, ever dignified -  hang above walnut chairs which sentry against the walls.

Tentatively, Alexander walks closer to touch the engraved mantlepiece. Marble from Italy, cool beneath his hand. He wrote a hundred letters about it on the general’s behalf. “This,” he remarks, as the memory surfaces, “this I remember. His Excellency was most particular about its composition.”

Mrs. Washington’s skirts rustle as she comes to stand beside him. “You are correct, Mr. Hamilton. But I would venture to say that he is most particular in most things,” she says.

He skirts the innuendo, words already darting one direction when his mind flits in another. “The marble was brought from Siena, if I recall?” For the price of that passage a man could dismantle Charlestown and rebuild it on Claremont Street.

His hostess laughs. “You have a remarkable memory, Mr. Hamilton.”

“My wife will tell you otherwise.” He runs a finger along the ridged columns, traces over a carved figure holding a cluster of grapes. “But I could hardly forget the work orders. I copied out enough to have them permanently engraved upon my brain.”

She hums in agreement. They study the mantlepiece for a moment before she broaches the silence. “Have you been to Italy, Mr. Hamilton?”

“I have not yet had the good fortune to see Europe,” he tells her. Hardly a moment can be spared to visit his father-in-law upstate; three months at sea is certainly out of the question. Although Eliza and Angelica both hint, in their separate ways, that he would enjoy Paris.

“Nor I,” she says, and they lapse again into comfortable silence. A latch clicks and they turn towards the noise.  

“My dear Mrs. Washington,” says the general from across the room, “you need only to say the word and we will set sail for the Continent at once.”

Washington’s eyes are on his wife as she glides over to greet him in the center of the room. As she lifts her hands for him to embrace, her shawl slips down her shoulder. Washington rights it with casual familiarity, thick fingers smoothing it into place. Aware that it is impolite to stare, Alexander directs his attention to the portrait closest to him, a relation of Mrs. Washington’s with a double chin.

“Hamilton.”

Alexander spins on his heel and comes face to face with the general. In turn, he too is touched - a shake of hands and a clasp on his elbow. Words are ash in his mouth, but he manages a tight, “Sir,” as Washington releases him.

“I will go through,” Mrs. Washington says, “we should be nearly ready.”

“Shall we wait here?” asks her husband. Alexander stares at the slight space between his parted lips as he finishes the question.

“Perhaps you may take this opportunity to show our guest your study? If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hamilton.” Her heels echo in the large room, a distant retreat.

Washington places a hand on the small of Alexander’s back and steers him in the direction of the door. They pause there, the frame too narrow for them both to pass at once. Alexander falls back in order to preserve precedence, but Washington shakes his head. “Go ahead, son,” he says, and Alexander's ears tingle as he steps through.

Whereas the other rooms were sumptuous, the general’s private study is restrained. It lacks in colour and ornament yet the shelves lining the walls are an embarrassment of riches. Here are Vico, Smith, More, Locke, Burke, Bentham, Mill, and yet more names which he has only heard mention of. Alexander feasts his eyes at the sight of so many books in one place.

A delicious smell has wafted through the open door and his stomach rumbles, yet Alexander thinks he could live on these shelves alone. “With your leave?” he asks, when he has looked his fill.

“By all means,” answers Washington.

Alexander takes down a double volume of Hume’s and opens it to its table of contents, then flips ahead to the section on the passions. 

_But beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a secondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence on the affections. Our reputation, our character, our name are considerations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes of pride; virtue, beauty and riches; have little influence, when not seconded by the opinions and sentiments of others….The stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and any object, the more easily does the imagination make the transition, and convey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we always form the idea of our own person._

“If you would like,” the general says, interrupting his concentration,“you may borrow it during your visit.”

“Hm?” Alexander looks up without really hearing what has been said. He mumbles a noise of protest as Washington takes the book from him, the finger he had set to mark his place sliding free from the pages with a whisper.

Washington places the book on his desk. “I will bring it with the ledgers.” He places emphasis on the next word. “ _Tonight._ ” Alexander shivers.

They cross back over to the small dining room. The close space is painted a most shocking colour of green. The general pulls out Mrs. Washington’s chair and Alexander sits when he does. Soup is brought to the table in a large silver tureen, and the lid removed after they have bent their heads to Washington’s blessing. Though he cares little for agriculture, Alexander must admit that Mount Vernon’s fertile (and overwell-explained) soil has done much for dinner.

There is a cold soup of watercress and cream which he would drink straight from the serving dish if he were by himself. The cress grows in their streams upriver, the cows who gave the milk have names, and as Washington discusses at length, their own particular temperaments and favourite spots to pasture.

Mrs. Washington pours them all more wine and grins at Alexander. “Tell me, Mr. Washington, how does one discern the temper of a cow?”

Alexander has to lift his napkin to his mouth to hide his laughter.

The biscuits are made with wheat threshed in Washington’s own barns and ground at his gristmill. Butter, half a dozen types of preserves, and wildflower honey are all produced within the bounds of the estate. These are served alongside a chafing dish of rabbit fricaseed with onions and bacon--

“Do pigs also have a personality, Your Excellency?” Alexander interrupts. Washington pauses to consider the question when Mrs. Washington pipes up instead, “Or rabbits, for that matter? Or is it only the larger animals?”

\-- a dish of tomatoes with breadcrumbs, sweet and savoury all at once, a salad of beet tops and soft lettuces that in answer to the general’s question, yes, Alexander does recall seeing under a frame that very afternoon, lady peas in a sauce bright with herbs from the gardens just outside the window. For sweets there are delicate cookies as thin as a woman’s chemise, and an ice cream made of strawberries as brightly pink as a lady’s hat.

They all drink coffee instead of tea, a holdover from the Revolution. Port and sweet wine follow. Mrs. Washington should really leave the room at that juncture, but they have eased the rules of decorum enough that she stays for a glass of Madeira, and then a second one. Decorum eases enough for Alexander to forgo a gentleman’s port for wine as well -- all the better, he prefers the sweetness. The topic shifts several times until Washington mentions his waiting charts of weather patterns, at which point Mrs. Washington stifles a yawn.

“Gentlemen,” she says as she stands. They rise to their feet. “I fear I must leave you to this conversation and retire with my embroidery. If you can spare some time after breakfast, Mr. Hamilton, I will show you the rest of the house. The Marquis’ room is much as he left it some years ago, and I am eager for more news of him.”

She proffers her hand once more. When he has kissed it she smiles fondly at them both. “Good night, gentlemen. Restful dreams.”

They linger over their drinks. Washington tells Alexander about the situation with lands west of here, struggling settlements along the Ohio and Chesapeake. He enquires after Eliza. They speak of Lafayette and his reports of the growing unrest in France.

During their talk the hum of the estate thrums into stillness around them. When they vacate the dining room with the Madeira bottle in hand, Washington makes a show of saying, “It is dark outside. I will walk with you,” as if anyone were around to hear him. Mrs. Washington has retired and the downstairs has emptied of its staff. Lamps have been lit, including one which Washington carries to his study to retrieve his books and ledgers, which provide the pretext for his nocturnal visit. They step out the front door and into the warm air. Every few seconds, glimmering pinpoints of light flash into being - _fireflies_ , Washington calls them.

Their footsteps crunch on the gravel as they walk up the drive past the kitchens and towards the clerk’s quarters. To Alexander, it seems a thin pretext indeed - why would they not hole up in Washington’s study? - but the chief virtue of being the man in charge, it would seem, is that your motives are never called into question by those around you. Alexander still does it. It seems silly to stop the habit now.

Once they are safely inside Washington tugs on the doorknob, so as to make certain the seal is tight. The welcome prospect of a cross breeze slams closed along with the windows. From the shelves Washington takes down two glasses. They are of much lower quality than the crystal they drank from at dinner, but the poor cut of the glass does not dull the sweetness of the wine. 

"Sit," Washington says, pulling out the single chair in the room. Alexander does so, sips his wine as the general places the first of many heavy books before him. 

Before he joined the cause, Washington surveyed land. The pages are full of maps, charts, dotted lines. No metric is left untallied, no circumstances unaccounted for. Every line is as straight as if drawn with a ruler. Washington’s decisiveness reads on every page. 

“Your record keeping is exceptional,” he remarks, as he turns the page. Hardly a strikethrough or correction to be found. 

Accounts of seeds received, rain that fell, storms which blew. Droughts, pests, transplants. Bushels yielded, acres divided, hours worked. It is all here in Washington's steady hand. Every word is considered and necessary. 

It feels long familiar, to be seated in front of a ledger as Washington paces the length of the room, hands clasped behind his back while Alexander concentrates. Since this afternoon’s lessons, the general appears at greater ease. That said, at no point has he made mention of their kisses, nor insinuated that more would be forthcoming.

Alexander steels himself to be patient. He moves on to the second ledger; then the third. 

Each second is interminable. Tension ratchets up in his shoulders, so much so that when Washington at last lays a hand on one, as he is reaching for the fourth and final volume, he jumps in his seat.

The general chuckles. “Forgive me. I did not mean to frighten you.” Washington’s thumb traces the back of his hairline, along his neck. He rests his other hand on the desk, alongside Alexander's own. The charts swim before his eyes. His lips purse without his notice as he inhales sharply. 

He has always failed at waiting.

"Have you found anything of interest?" The question is sensible, but how could he fathom an answer with Washington's mouth so close to his ear? He swallows, says, as casually as his desire allows, "I have found that your penmanship has improved since your retirement from the Army, Sir." 

"Very good," laughs Washington, "I am glad to hear it."

Alexander stretches only his littlest finger away from his hand, permits it to brush against the general’s. In the quiet of the room the sound of his blood rushes loud in his ears. When Washington lifts his hand and places it atop Alexander’s own, the ensuing whimper sounds as loud as musket shot. Their fingers interlace atop the table. Washington’s other hand cradles the back of Alexander’s head and he arches back in pleasure.

Were he to spin around his head would be level with Washington’s cock. Were he to be impetuous he might reach across to palm its thick ridge through two layers of cloth. Were he impatient, he might untuck it, press damp kisses to its tip and go without any on his mouth. He has always relished taking the general apart before he'd even undressed.

Washington’s fingers card through his hair. Feet beneath the table, eyes on the book in front of him.

He can wait, he is waiting.

And the general has noticed. “You have been very patient,” he observes. The forthcoming retort, a habit of a lifetime, is swallowed when Washington bends at the waist to kiss him. 

Alexander turns in his chair for better access. A hint of that afternoon’s desperation lingers but these kisses are slower, sweeter. They have the unparalleled luxury of time. The general’s eyes, when he pulls away, are black, the pupils engorged. And yes, his mouth is nearly where he predicted it would be. Drawn closer, he murmurs, “Not so very patient, Sir. I have waited long enough,” and fits his palm to its shape. Washington leans into the touch, and Alexander thrills to it. He exhilarates in this feeling of power over such a powerful man. Of course no one can know, he would be destroyed if he boasted of it, but _he_ knows, and _Washington_ knows, and Washington, he surmises, needs him.

He shuts his mouth, closes his throat off until he feels spit flood inside. And then he licks his lips and reaches for the buttons of Washington’s breeches.

Yet he must wait a little longer, for Washington’s arousal barely dampens his acuity for observation. He notices the graze on Alexander's palm and his brow furrows with concern.

“Hamilton. You’re injured?”

“I’m fine,” he insists, yanking his hand away and hiding it behind his back. “It’s a scratch. Nothing.”

Washington looks disappointed at his reticence. “Show me,” says the general, “if you please.” After a fraction of a moment, he says, more softly, "Alexander." 

Alexander feels his forehead crease in protest, yet he silently offers up his palm. Washington hums thoughtfully, twisting his hand this way and that to examine the depth of the wound. Then without so much as a word he has dropped down to one knee like a suitor. 

Washington pulls a small tin from the pocket of his waistcoat, a clean handkerchief from his jacket. “Sir?” Alexander asks,“What are you doing?”

“Medicinal plants,” says Washington, as he opens a small pot of salve that smells of Christmas, “they will help the wound to heal. We grow many here.” And there on bent knee he tends to Alexander’s scraped and bruised hand. He unties the bandage and knots it again. It was perfect the first time.

The kiss he places atop the handkerchief is chaste, as is the one on his wrist when he lifts Alexander’s hand to cradle the side of his face.

“I have seen them," Alexander says. "You have tended your garden well."

Washington hesitates, then says, "I have done well enough." 

Blood buzzes in his ears. He is so tired of waiting. "Do you want me?” he asks. Then he demands the answer. “Tell me.”

The general tilts his head up for a kiss and Alexander is helpless.

“Yes,” Washington answers, as he touches Alexander's throat, “a thousand times yes.”

“Yes,” Alexander echoes, when the general’s lips remember the very places that makes him arch and squirm. "Show me." 

Odd, he thinks, as Washington hoists him from the chair and sets him on the desk. That he should spend his whole life with claws unsheathed, ready to attack any who would suggest he yield. And yet under Washington’s tutelage, and under his touch, he has surrendered more times that he can count.

Washington pulls him forward by his thighs and the ledger wedged underneath his arse travels with him. How he manages to unbutton the general’s waistcoat with his eyes closed remains a mystery, but when he blinks them open Washington is in the process of tearing off his jacket, his waistcoat. These articles fall to the floor, joined thereafter by his cravat, his overshirt, his undershirt. Alexander feels, not for the first time in his life, acutely overdressed.

Tallow is no longer a luxury of wartime. Candles are in abundance at Mount Vernon. The room is well illuminated and he can clearly see the general’s body - the broadness of his shoulders, the well-defined muscles of his chest. Alexander’s already lithe frame seems small in comparison, though peacetime and married life have conspired against him; a slight softness to his belly, a roundness to his face.

Their foreheads meet again as Washington works a finger into the first knot of Alexander’s cravat. It comes apart easily, though he has tied the second knot more tightly. For that Washington uses both hands, and then he unwraps Alexander as one would a porcelain teacup. Delicate, careful. But not altogether fragile, as in one swift motion he pushes the jacket from Alexander’s shoulders. It falls to the floor with a swish. Their loins rub together as Washington lifts his feet to remove his shoes, and then he bends over, face buried in Alexander’s neck -- kissing, _always kissing_ \-- and lifts him off the table. Washington’s mouth is busy as he carries him, grazing the side of Alexander’s neck as if to bite. 

He is laid on the bed and there divested of his waistcoat, his shirt, and his hose. With his arms bared the handkerchief bandage seems unsightly, but he does not wish to anger Washington by removing it purely for aesthetic effect. The buttons on his breeches are loosened but they remain on as Washington removes still more of his own clothing. His underclothes are of muslin, thin enough that he can discern the shape of his cock along his thigh. He draws his foot along it and is more than pleased with the groan Washington emits in response. 

"Alexander," he says, gravel in his voice. 

Alexander blinks up at him, helpless to watch his own actions. Washington's cock fattens and flexes beneath the arch of his foot. Satisfied with the noises Washington is making, he hooks thumbs into his own waistband and wriggles out of his breeches and underthings. He leans back against the pillow. Washington tracks him hungrily as he does so. And god, the _power_ of that feeling, as Washington gazes at him with pure want, a look burned clean of paternal fondness, because Alexander is no longer a boy for him to protect, but a man he very much wants to fuck.

Always acutely aware of his appearance, he calls to mind how he must look. Hair fanned out on the pillow, lips a bitten red. Already the sun from the day’s excursions will be turning his skin from pink to gold. His thighs have chafed from the walk, but their mottled appearance matters less than what lies between them.

Alexander relishes the opportunity to be shameless. “Sir,” he says, and parts his legs. “Sir, I want you so much.”

Pride floods his chest when the general curses at the sight of him. Washington shoves up off the bed and fetches his tin from the desk. Standing before Alexander, he pushes down his underclothes. He is still magnificent. Now it is his turn to curse.

Yet the feeling of elation is short lived. Hours have passed since he wept in front of Washington, but the tears are there, lying in wait, for any opportunity to unleash themselves. They prick at his eyes when Washington reaches for him, a blob of ointment thick on the pads of his fingers. Barely has he grazed Alexander's opening when he cries out in protest. Alarmed, the general pulls back.

“Are you quite all right?” he asks to Alexander's heaving chest. His hand rests tenderly on the chafed skin of Alexander's inner thigh. Though his eyes are dark with arousal, the desire is tempered by concern.

He squirms. “I'm fine,” he says, after a pregnant pause. “It's just--”

“It has been too long?” Washington murmurs, as he strokes Alexander’s stomach reassuringly.

“Well,” he says, in earnest --

God, _would_ that he had the shame to blush now. At least the darkness provides cover for his audacity. All the times he has struggled with his own fingers to reach that magical place inside of himself, the bundle of nerves that reverberate through his body like shrapnel. Even when Eliza takes him, with the gifts they have received from Paris, something is amiss.

And it is this: the heat of another, the wicked slap of flesh against flesh. The utter _ache_ when he is breached without much more than spit and a warning. The tight press of Washington's firm abdomen against his buttocks as he sheathes himself. The sinful noise of his own slight body yielding to that powerful one. The hot flex of Washington's cock inside of him, the steady trickle of saliva and fluid that leaks out while they fuck. How his balls hit hard against Alexander's upper thighs with every long and conquering thrust.

\-- the confession comes in a blurted rush. “I don't need it,”

Washington looks curiously at the salve on his fingers. “It will help ease the pain,” he tells Alexander, moving again as if to prepare him. He swats Washington's hand away and closes his legs for good measure.

“I don't doubt it.” Alexander juts his chin out defiantly, and speaks the truth when he says, “but I wish for everything, even that of which the pain is part.” They wait a moment more. "Sir, if you please. I want it to _hurt_." 

“Ah.” Comprehension comes slowly to Washington. Alexander gets his way; he always gets his way. Washington removes his hand with its oily promise of easy passage.  

Ever resourceful, he finds a use for it nonetheless, warming it between his palms before slicking himself with a thick layer of it. The sight is hypnotic, and Alexander’s attention is torn between watching his general’s hands move deliberately upon himself and the way he bites his full bottom lip as he does so. Distantly, Alexander catches the commingled smells of oranges studded with cloves, lavender and mint.

Washington leans back against the wall and examines his work, panting a little. His cock gleams in the candlelight, and Alexander wonders if the salve tastes as good as it smells, and how that might heighten the general’s own taste. He wants to ask, to get his way a second time, but all at once Washington pulls Alexander up by the waist and onto his lap. Their mouths meet but they do not kiss so much as share the same hot air between them.

Tears lap at the corners of Alexander's eyes. His head falls forward onto the general’s shoulder. Strong hands grip his waist and lift him into place. He thinks distantly that he should assist in the process, use his hands where Washington cannot see, find the best angle from which to fit them together.

“Sir,” he says. Washington hums a noise of dissatisfaction as he misses his target; steadily, he repositions Alexander, holding him up with strong hands so that he can sink down, one excruciating fraction at a time.

Stars shoot off behind his eyes at the pain. It is extraordinary how much it hurts, even with the way thus eased, and try as he might wish to rush it, Washington sets the pace.

“Patience, my boy,” he soothes, at Alexander's mewl of frustration. “We will get there soon enough.”

Washington cups his buttocks, one hand in each cheek, and shifts his weight beneath him. Alexander is distantly aware that he is twisting, moving in the general's hands and making his task more difficult. He cranes his head to look at the place where they are joined, arches his back for a better view. 

It slips out, slides damp along his buttock instead.

“You're too tight,” Washington protests, and makes as if to move Alexander from his lap. By sheer will alone does he overpower the general, summoning strength he did not know he possessed. For once in his life he forgets how he looks to another. For once in his life he wants to _feel_.

His hand comes away slick with the unguent as he forces Washington to breach him. His cock bends but it does not flag, and inch by inch, Alexander takes it. The sensation rips through his belly. He breathes out in one long cry as he is filled and it hurts and hurts and the pain is more exquisite than he had hoped to imagine.

“Fuck,” swears Washington, as Alexander makes his way down as best he can. From the circle of his large hands around Alexander's waist he makes his presence felt, cinching him tight like a corset. An undignified whine escapes Alexander's throat. A ragged sound of uneven breath that must belong to him fills the room. Hot and cold roll across his skin in waves. The burn of his inner thighs recedes into a dull back beat, the immediate pain in sharp focus like the ring of a bell.  

Washington lays one hand across Alexander's slight belly, thrusts. The bell clangs louder, deafening. “It hurts,”  he blurts out in a dizzying rush, “it hurts, it hurts.”

Washington holds very still then, and peers into Alexander’s face with concern. “If you need to stop--”

“I need it,” he says, senseless, “I need you, please, Sir, fuck--”

Washington’s cock flexes at the words. It could be involuntary, but he thinks otherwise. This theorem he tests by begging, and since when has he begged for anything?

“Please,” he whines, “please don’t stop don’t make me stop--”

“I won’t,” Washington reassures, palming Alexander’s stomach again. His dick moves thickly inside Alexander and nudges a fraction deeper. 

His toes dig into the mattress for traction and he lowers down, swivels his hips. Washington catches him by the sides of the waist. The general’s hands move him as if he weighs no more than a feather. He places one hand atop them and the other roams across his chest, into his hair, even going so far as to slip a few fingers into his own mouth.

Sweat drips into his eyes and stings them. From beneath him, Washington gives and takes in equal measure. His hands clamp onto Alexander's buttocks and it is there, as he grinds and moves in most indecorous way, that his lips go numb and his chest tightens. The bell becomes cymbals; his body the storm between their striking. 

"Sir," he pants, "It's - I'm--"

"Let me hear it," says Washington, as his hands rove all over, yet skirt away from his cock. "Let me hear you, son." His cock thumps and flexes against Alexander's insides as he gives himself over to it. It is too much and not enough all at once, but before he knows it he is crying out against the flicker of the candlelight, once, twice, as his whole body goes rigid. 

The air resonates. 

Aftershocks flood him as Washington lays him down on the narrow bed, wetness trickling off Alexander's chest and onto the coverlet. Even through the haze of his release he clings to his general, shifting his legs to grip behind his back as he fucks Alexander into the mattress and finishes like that. 

It hurt when it went in and it hurts when he pulls it out. Washington rolls over and tucks a hand behind his head. Full and wet and soaked in their sweat, Alexander pulls his knees to his chest and holds them there.

He has been so thoroughly _had_ that he has to laugh.

"What?" asks Washington, as Alexander drops his feet to the mattress and tells him.

There in the darkness, Washington laughs as well. "No one, man or woman, could ever hope to have you, Alex. But I am grateful that you have allowed me to borrow you for a time."

They doze a bit, but they borrow time once more before the sunrise. For a moment or two, the noise stops.  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr [@pitcherplant](http://pitcherplant.tumblr.com/) but making most of my bad decisions here.


End file.
